At 6.57pm on Wednesday 3 August, as the final notes of Freed From Desire by Gala (Full vocal club mix) lingered in the eaves of the Rose Bowl, Hampshire, as the lights of the smoke-shrouded player tunnel gleamed like nuggets of high carbon Llanelli anthracite – like fire, Welsh fire – Joe Clarke, top bracket signing, felt a droplet of sweat trickle down the grille of his tomato red helmet.
Slowly he turned to Tom Banton, first draft pick, with whom he would in the next few moments be yoked together on the face of the Hundred Matchday One, out there like mountaineers scaling that sheer sporting peak. “Bro.
Are you out later? It’s foam night at Zeus.” The air seemed to shimmer between them, potent with the tang of raw, uncut sporting entertainment product, as umpire Arthur Cakebread brushed past, sighing, as he strapped the sleek black plastic ball shield to his forearm.
Banton looked up from his phone. “You know, if you close your eyes for long enough, I mean for a really, really long time, you can smell colours.